because she knew

...how to play,

to lean down on her honches then skitter in fun.

Because she knew how to run from one room to another,

carrying her squirrel, just shedding off some extra energy.

Because of her one small crooked eye,

because she could lick the bowl clean.

Because she knew how to sit, always along side of you,

a willing companion, a constant companion.

Because she always came to welcome you home,

and ease you to sleep.

Because she gave love when love was easy

and when love was gone.

Because maybe she's in heaven now too,

if one believes in that kind of thing,

eating chips handed down from someone

so surprised, yet happy, to see her.

We give thanks.

what are you looking for?

We gathered in a circle, read the text and then scattered. 

Off into cubbies, every nook and cranny of the church. 

Outside into the woods, down the walking trails, 

In the library, by the window alcove. 

What are you looking for, what are you looking for?

I knew my answer quickly and made circles within circles, 

all leaning into one idea that holds every idea: radical peace. 

A full uncompromised knowing that I am loved, 

I am known, I am cared for.  My life has meaning. 

Because, in that fearlessness, I know I will be free 

to love, know and fully care for others.  

When it was time to share, Scott spoke 

of hiking to an outcropping over the river

where he knew -- realized-- that only he and God where there 

at that time, in that place.  What an amazing idea that is:

God and I are the only ones writing this poem.  

God and you, whoever you are are, are the only ones reading it. 

God is somewhere fishing with a man on a wide river in Texas, 

God is folding laundry in Peoria, Illinois. 

God and child have just drifted off to sleep on Dellwood Road. 

Scott said that when he came back inside to write, 

it was more like a dialogue.  Him asking a question, 

and then, without explanation, a holy response. 

There were tears in his eyes when he spoke of this. 

Others shared.  Not really what they were looking for, 

but how it felt to think and write about the question. 

When we were done, I went straight over to Scott

and asked, "What did God say back?  What did he tell you?" 

Then Scott turned his body, and I turned mine 

as we made our own little circle apart from the others.

He read what he had written.  He whispered God's response, 

his hands shaking, the paper twitching. 

Round drops falling on the page. 

And it was beautiful what Scott wrote, 

and how God answered -- I can't tell you, 

I won't tell you as much as I want to -- 

that is Scott's poem to write.  All I know is this:  

that Scott and I and God were the only ones there, 

in the Sycamore Room of the River's Edge Retreat Center, 

in that moment, in that place, with and for each other, 

under our own tent of radical peace. 

It's freezing outside.

yet the sun is shining. 

A lone sparrow has been chirping

in the bush next to my front porch. 

I heard her as I awakened, 

and all through the morning. 

So much to say to no one.

So much to sing about. 

In a few hours I will fly 

across the country. 

Working on the long weekend, 

in a hotel by the airport. 

I am not excited to go, 

to be surrounded by people. 

But I will go, say more than I should, 

flirt with someone I will never see again. 

I will find a spot in the light, 

and soak in the California heat. 

There is something assuring 

about my new bird friend.

How she is self-sufficient, beckoning, 

willing to spout off, 

work through it, 

sing her way back to herself. 

It is freezing outside, 

yet the sun is shining. 

She knows it, and 

does not let it go to waste. 

Happy new year

It was icy last night,
Cleveland seems to be in a freeze thaw cycle,
and so a friend asked me to drive her home.
We looped around the block
so that I could get as close to her apartment as I could,
and as I slowly slid to a stop,
she said, "Thanks for the ride, Lisa."
Hmmm. Lisa? My name isn't Lisa.
So maybe this year, instead of being Jean,
a name that women over 65 have,
I will be Lisa. Lisa Jane maybe.

And, just because the calendar has flipped
from an even year into an odd year,
I will stretch my limits and be odd,
not divisible by two. Not a multiple of two.
I will be prime, a bit off.
Lisa the 7th, Lisa the 13th,
Lisa the 19th, queen of a new world order.

And I will do these things with intention and purpose:
be aggressive hospitable,
selfishly giving, quietly bold.
I will fish for details, listen with my eyes open,
get more than cement under my feet.
I will be an agent of insistent certainty,
not letting my heart and mind waver and dip.
I will love where I sit, do what I can, be who I am,
trusting in the soft grace of graciousness

to shine a new way home.